Diminuendo, Crescendo
by Cumberbatch Critter
Summary: Sherlock Holmes stood on a wall, Sherlock Holmes had a great Fall. All of Greg's forces and all of John's friends, couldn't put their lives back together again. Introspective oneshots starting at the Fall and ending with the Return; one chapter, each day, until the PBS premiere.
1. Stay With You

**Diminuendo/Crescendo**

_"Alright, everything is alright since you came along._  
_And before you, I had nowhere to run to_  
_and nothing to hold onto; I came so close to giving it up._

_And I wonder if you know,_  
_how it feels to let you go."_

Sherlock stares forlornly towards John's form on the pavement below. It isn't easy, this. He knows that this is fake and he knows how this will play out- the blood, the biker, the goodbye- but it doesn't help to soften the blow. His tears are real.

It's a scary concept, to be honest, Sherlock reasons with himself. He's never been so... emotionally attached to another person, so it's a little difficult to get used to. Not to mention that right as he was getting used to it, he has to leave it behind.

It actually _hurts_.

The thought of leaving John, leaving the life he knows behind, makes his throat clouted with emotion and his eyes sting with his tears. It makes the words difficult in coming and breathing a little bit more difficult.

He knows that it's useless. Emotion cannot help anything, cannot help this, this _travesty_. Crying isn't going to make it any easier, but at least he's the only one he knows. If John saw him crying, not only would it hurt his flatmate even more than the initial plan would, it would do something to Sherlock's pride. No one ever got to see him cry. No one ever _made_ him cry.

Except John.

John was always the exception to Sherlock's rule. Always. He will continue to be, too, Sherlock imagines. John's face right now- and thankfully Sherlock can't make out the minute details- will haunt him for however long this farce has to continue.

But he will do this; it's not as though he has a choice in the matter. Besides, this is to protect the people that he cares for. John, Mrs Hudson, Lestrade... Molly. They all matter to him, not that he ever says so in so many words, but they do. They _matter_. And that is scary. Because Sherlock has never _cared_.

_Futile, you idiot,_ he thinks to himself. _Wishful thinking,_ he reminds himself.

Sherlock raises his chin slightly.

This is his fate. And, as with most things, he will face it head on.

* * *

**Song: _Stay_ by Hurts.  
Disclaimer: I do not own the song, lyrics, etc. I am merely quoting them and citing as such.**

**Note: If you are watching the Series Three premiere/episodes, do NOT- _do not_- post any spoilers in your reviews. Please. This is one thing that I ask, for the sake of the American/other countries' premieres. I wish to be surprised about this Series. So, please, mind your reviews if you know what happens this Series. :)**

**I do not own _Sherlock_, nor any of the songs that I am quoting (nor the _Humpty Dumpty_ nursery rhyme). Thank you! 18 days until the PBS premiere!**


	2. Hope is Fickle

_._

_"Call all your friends; tell them I'm never coming back._  
_'Cause this is the end; pretend that you want it..._  
_Don't react._

_The damage is done; the police are coming too slow now._  
_I would have died, I would have loved you all my life."_

Sherlock ponders a lot of things while he's standing on the rooftop. It's not like he has anything else to do, because think and talk and throw himself off a building. So, he ponders a lot of things.

John, for example. He always ponders John. John is a mystery that Sherlock cannot quite figure out and there is nothing as intriguing as an unsolved case.

If Sherlock really thinks about it, he thinks that maybe it's... _love_. It's weird; he has never loved a thing in his life, but with John, he's just blissfully _happy_. He doesn't want anything else. Well, of course he always wants cases and murders and crimes, or good experiments or a nicotine patch or three, but John makes his life infinitely better.

It's probably not a good thing that he realises this right before he fakes his own death. Because he has no idea how long he'll be away, or even if he'll come back, and... _love_ is a sort of thing that he thinks he needs to ponder about a bit more, especially this type of love that he feels towards John.

It's not... romantic, as far as he can tell. He's not particularly knowledgeable on what type of love is what, but he doesn't particularly feel like doing the things John does with his girlfriends to him. So, platonic then. Although Sherlock supposes it's possible to have a non-sexual relationship- not partnership, not friendship, but relationship... but then that seemingly defeats the purpose of a quote-unquote relationship.

He figures brotherly love next. Like family. Sherlock doesn't exactly know what this feels like, either. There was little lost love in his family throughout the years, so he didn't have the experience of knowing what it felt like. But it was a sort of... kindred feeling. A place to belong.

Sentiment made him want to vomit, copiously, onto the rooftop. Not literally, of course, because that would only make him feel worse, but metaphorically speaking, it was disgusting. He had told The Woman months ago that the chemistry behind _love_ was extremely destructive... and look at him now. He had realised something, something about John, about Mrs Hudson, about Greg, and he was standing on a rooftop preparing to 'die'.

Love was corruptive. Love was dangerous, and love was deadly.

This was living proof.

It is... strange, Sherlock thinks. Love was strange, but love was strong and love was... protecting the one you care for the most.

No matter what the cost.

_"Remember the day, 'cause this is what dreams should always be._  
_I just want to stay. I just want to keep this dream in me."_

* * *

**Song: _Losing Your Memory_ by Ryan Star.  
Disclaimer: I do not own the lyrics or music involved.  
**

**(I'm still a platonic shipper. They're soulmates, to me, but not romantic. Sorry if you don't like that.)**

**I do not own _Sherlock_. 17 days until the PBS premiere!**


	3. Even Wishing is Useless

_._

_"I'm out on the edge and I'm screaming my name_  
_like a fool at the top of my lungs._  
_Some times when I close my eyes,_  
_I pretend I'm alright but it's never enough._  
_'Cause my echo, echo, is the only voice coming back._  
_Shadow, shadow, is the only friend that I have."_

He had told Molly that he wasn't okay. He wasn't. He was faking his own suicide, for God's sake; of course he wasn't okay. He wasn't unfeeling. He wanted to be, he strived to be, but sentiment snuck in when he least expected it and... he wasn't okay.

Nothing about this is 'okay'. Standing on the edge of a building, telling John that he's a fake, that he invented Moriarty, the man who is lying, dead, behind him. That he had researched John and how, how could have he done that? He hadn't even know Mike was bringing John over, let alone being able to find stuff about his drunk, divorced sister online. He could have, he supposed, but it would have taken time, but he knows that John will swallow the lie, for now, anyway, because Sherlock's about to commit suicide in front of him.

But these details matter. He has to make sure that John utterly believes that he is doing what he is doing. That he really is going to be dead. If he can make his best friend believe it, three assassins will believe it, too.

And then? Then it's going to be a very solitary life, Sherlock reckons, but he lived that once before and he can live it again... albeit if he doesn't really want to.

_"I don't want to be an island._  
_I just want to feel alive and get to see your face again."_

* * *

**Song: ****_Echo_**** by Jason Walker.  
Disclaimer: I do not own the song, lyrics, etc.**

**Molly. :)**

**I do not own ****_Sherlock_****. Thank you!**


	4. Realisation

_._

_"I'm walking up to you so slowly._  
_It's about time, it's about time to fly away,_  
_but wait._  
_I swear it's different 'cause I'm lonely._  
_Fold your wings; you'll need them more one day."_

It's not as though John can believe any of this.

He _can't_. He can't entertain the _thought_, like Sherlock had said, that he had been taken in as well by the lie. He _knows_ that it isn't a lie, that someone is making Sherlock say this, making him stand there. Someone is pulling the strings. It's Moriarty; Moriarty, who's real and who's alive and who's making Sherlock say that he's a fake, that he invented the crimes, that he is _going to commit suicide_.

No, it can't be true. It can't be real.

But it is. It's _real_.

Sherlock _is_ standing on the edge of St Bart's, Sherlock _is_ saying "This is my note", Sherlock _is_ going to jump, and John _is_ going to watch.

He's going to watch his best friend die, he's going to watch his life fall apart. He's going to watch everything fall apart as Sherlock falls down and, it's terrifying, it's acutely terrifying, that John is going to not only lose everything he knows but his best friend, his _only_ best friend.

Yes, he goes out drinking with Mike and talks with Bill and gets on well enough with Greg, but he doesn't have the same relationship with them that he does with Sherlock. He doesn't have that and he isn't going to have it now and he'll never have it again.

He's never talked anyone down. He did training at Bart's, he did war in Afghanistan. Morale had never been particularly high; John had had to remind people what they were fighting for, what was at stake, reassure them that this would all be over soon.

But he had _never_ had to talk someone down, not like this, and no one, _no one_, can talk Sherlock Holmes down.

Not even him.

John knows that he's going to lose his best friend.

No, he doesn't believe all the drivel that Sherlock is spewing, but he does believe the emotion behind it. Something is wrong, something is seriously wrong, besides the obvious Moriarty scandal, but John doesn't know what and he knows that he can't understand it right now.

But he's going to lose his best friend.

He's losing his best friend and he's losing a part of himself as well.

He can't breathe.

The world is about to shatter and all John can do is watch.

* * *

**Song: _It's About Time_ by Barcelona  
Disclaimer: I do not own the song.  
**

**No matter how many times, Reichenbach always eats away at my sanity. And pulls at my heartstrings. Revisiting this hurts. :p****I do not own _Sherlock_.**


	5. Lives are Changing

_._

_"I'm not ready to let go 'cause then I'll never know_  
_what I could be missing._  
_But I'm missing way too much, so when do I give up_  
_what I've been wishing for?"_

Sherlock is well aware of how much things are going to change. He is going to lose his life, his best friend, everything he knows now... but he can't do a thing about it. He wonders what he's going to miss, what's going to happen when he's gone.

Obviously, John will be devastated. Mrs Hudson will be sad. Greg will be in disbelief. Donovan and Anderson will be pleased, Sherlock supposes. And Molly... Molly is the only one who will know. And it's going to affect her, too, but Sherlock can't do a thing about it.

It's useless. Wishing can't change anything, won't change anything.

Life just goes on without you.

Sherlock knows that, of course he does. He's a consulting detective who deals in death. But it's a little different when _he's_ about to be the one to 'commit suicide'.

But, he can't think about it. He can think about the future, the infinite possibilities. The travelling, the fighting, the assassins, the cases, the murders, and...

A tiny thrill of exhilaration shoots through Sherlock's veins before it's turned to ice by the tone of John's voice through the phone.

Just two little words, with enough sentiment to make him sick.

"Goodbye, John."

_"I shot for the sky; I'm stuck on the ground._  
_So, why do I try? I know I'm gonna fall down."_

* * *

**Song: _Down_ by Jason Walker.  
Disclaimer: Do not own anything involved.**

**Sorry. Short chapter. There's only so much I could write about while Sherlock was on the rooftop, but we're clearly to that point now. =p Do not own _Sherlock_. Thank you!**

**Two weeks until the premiere! (Albeit I think I'm the only one who _is_ waiting until the PBS premiere.)**


	6. One More Miracle

_._

_"When you fall, you fell towards me._  
_When you crashed in the clouds, you found me._

_Oh please don't go._  
_I want you so._  
_I can't let go,_  
_for I lose control."_

John draws in a huge breath, trying to catch himself, trying to calm down. He's in shock, he knows, he might have a concussion.

Hell, how does that _matter_? How does any of this matter? John wants to run after Sherlock and wait for his friend to pop up, unharmed, and say _surprise!_ But can't... He's stuck in place with glue under his feet and he has _never_ felt worse than he does in this moment. Going to Afghanistan, getting shot, strapped with Semtex, fearing for his life with the Hound... no, none of that adds up to _this_. _All_ of that doesn't add up to _this_.

He still hasn't figured it out. But it was Sherlock. It was Sherlock on that rooftop and it was Sherlock who called and it was Sherlock who jumped and it was Sherlock who was dead on the pavement, dead.

The word echoes through John's mind, like a demented chant that he can't escape.

_Dead, dead, dead. Sherlock Holmes is dead. Your best friend is dead. Dead._

John forces himself to suck in another breath. He doesn't feel like it reaches his lungs and he instinctively gasps for air again. It, too, barely reaches its target.

He doesn't know if he wants to yell, to scream or cry, curse the world or curse Sherlock. He can't make those decisions now. All he can think is _dead_ and _goodbye, John_ and _no, no, NO, SHERLOCK_. It's a muddled mess but John can't work through it, not now. Not ever, he thinks, right now, but that has to change. It will change, right? He will get over this.

... But he knows he won't, not really. The one thing that he really cared about, the one thing that made his life _his_ life has just jumped off a building and killed himself for reasons John will never know. He just _watched_ his _best friend_ jump off of a building without being to do anything.

He's a doctor, damn it. He should be able to help. He should have been able to help Sherlock, with whatever he was going through, but Sherlock hadn't even _mentioned_ it. Even if it wasn't psychological- and John wasn't sure that it was- all Sherlock had said was _I need to be alone_ and ideally pushed John away. He was good at that, pushing people away.

But John had always been there, pushing back, and he hadn't... He hadn't been able to do that this time. All he had been able to do was... watch.

So close and yet so far.

_Breathe_, reminds a tiny voice in his head. John struggles to follow the command. He stares at the place where Sherlock's been wheeled into Bart's and the place where the blood is still spread out against the pavement and he _can't_ breathe. It's too difficult, it's too much work, it _hurts_.

Sherlock just put a whole in his heart and John isn't sure if he can survive it.

Sherlock hadn't survived the fall and John wasn't sure that he would, either.

* * *

**Song: _Please Don't Go_ by Barcelona.  
Disclaimer: I don't own it. Or _Sherlock_.  
**

**Let me come through; he's my friend.**


	7. Coming Down

.

_"This is the end._  
_Hold your breath and count to ten._  
_Feel the earth move and then-_  
_hear my heart burst again._

_For this is the end._  
_I've drowned and dreamt this moment._  
_So overdue, I owed them._  
_Swept away, I'm stolen."_

It'll never be easy. Sherlock knows that's the thing that will haunt John. The fact that he couldn't help, that he couldn't stop it. One minute, Sherlock was standing there and the next, he was dead. Here in a minute, gone in a flash, so it was said.

And it's doubly horrible, John thinks, because he knew since the beginning that something would happen. That he'd get a call, that the police would show up at the door, that Mycroft would sit him down to say that Sherlock had gotten himself killed. He wasn't stupid. He expected it.

But for it to happen this way? In front of his eyes?

Sherlock doesn't want it to end this way. He never has, but it's the _only_ away. He's been swept into a much bigger plan, a life plan, and it doesn't involve staying with John for now. He knows he's stealing John's life away, but he can't do a thing about it.

John's numb. That's really all there is to it.. Everything he knows has been stolen away from him, right from under his nose. So, where does he turn to now? He supposes there's still remnants... Baker Street and Mrs Hudson and DI Lestrade on the force. But none of it's the _same_ now.

His life is different, Sherlock reasons, throwing clothes into a suitcase as Molly stands by.

His life will never be the same, John accepts, as he watches the blood trickle down the pavement.

_"Let the sky fall when it crumbles._  
_We will stand tall and face it all_  
_together at sky fall."_

* * *

**Song: _Skyfall_ by Adele.  
Disclaimer: I do not own the song, any of the James Bond franchise, or _Sherlock_.**

**Because this is haunting and beautiful music.  
(PS. 12 days until the premiere!)**


	8. Killing You, Killing Me

_._

_"You're my head; you're my heart._

_No light, no light, in your bright blue eyes._  
_I never knew daylight could be so violent._  
_A revelation in the light of day-_  
_you can't choose what stays and what fades away._  
_And I'd do anything to make you stay..."_

Funny.

John had never known. He had _never_ known. What Sherlock really meant to him.

He was friendship. He was companionship, he was happiness, he was admiration, he was truth, he was intelligence, he was bravery, he was courage, he was light in the darkness. He was family. He was life.

John sits in Greg's office, numb, staring towards the wall. He is supposed to be doing something, saying something, anything, but he can't. He doesn't know how he got here, to be honest, but he's here. He doesn't want to be.

It's a bad thing, he knows, but he'd rather be with Sherlock. What would his therapist say? John wonders. Suicide watch or something. He knows that that's giving up but facing the day without his best friend to wake up to... It's hell. It's hell on earth and John doesn't know how he's going to survive. If he's going to survive.

He needs to, though.

For Sherlock. He needs to tell people what really happened. He needs to fight the war that he knows Sherlock had to give up for a good reason. He can't just _give up_ on Sherlock. He's the only person that Sherlock _has_, has ever had.

But, can he?

John isn't sure. But he needs to try.

He looks up at Greg and starts to talk.

* * *

**Song: _No Light, No Light _- Florence and the Machine  
Disclaimer: I do not own the song, nor _Sherlock_. All rights to their respective owners.  
**

**Sherlock is life, Sherlock is death, Sherlock is everything to John. Just like John is everything to Sherlock.**


	9. Living a Nightmare

_._

_"My hands are cold, my body's numb._  
_I'm still in shock; what have you done?_  
_My head is pounding, my vision's blurred._  
_Your mouth is moving; I don't hear a word."_

John wakes up in a cold sweat.

He knew, of course, that this was coming. The nightmares. It hadn't prepared him, because this is _horrible_.

He was stuck on the ground again, staring up at Sherlock, but everything was muted. He couldn't hear Sherlock, couldn't say anything, but the word _suicide_ had echoed throughout his ears, over and over and over. And then, when Sherlock was supposed to fall forward, he gave him a sardonic smile and jumped.

The next time John wakes up with a racing heart, the nightmare has changed. Sherlock's still dying, of course. John suspects that he'll very much have to take a sleeping aid tonight if he wants to sleep the rest of the night uninterrupted.

Sherlock had been in Afghanistan with him, in the dream. And John hadn't known, but had crawled through the dust and dirt to assess a soldier with blood pouring from a gash running up the length of his leg and John had found it was Sherlock. And he tried to stop the bleeding and he tried to talk to Sherlock, but he couldn't hear him over the gunfire and the bombs and the shouting. But then Sherlock had gone still, those cold, lifeless eyes staring up at him...

... and that, of course, is when John sits up, gasping for air and staring at his hands as though he expects the blood from Sherlock's wounds to be all over him.

Or maybe the blood from his own wounds, he doesn't know. Because these dreams have to be literally _physically_ hurting them. They have to be. It feels like his heart is bursting.

The third dream is from the Atwill-Porter Baths, so many months ago with Jim and Sherlock and the Semtex. And instead of Jim's phone going off, the bomb does, and John wakes up with the echoes of a gunshot in his mind. Like those dreams so many months ago. _So_ many months ago.

He doesn't know when the shaking stops, or if it does, and where the tears start. He is encompassed by miserable darkness and there is no light to save him now.

_"I'm falling through the doors of the emergency room._  
_Can anybody help me with these exit wounds?_  
_I don't know how much more love this heart can lose,_  
_but I'm dying, dying from these exit wounds."_

* * *

**Song: _Exit Wounds_ - The Script.  
Disclaimer: I do not own the song or _Sherlock_. Rights to their respective owners.**

**I have loved this song for a good long while. It was one of the first songs that I started with when I went out on a search for songs. But, then again, I really love The Script.**

**Special thanks to:  
- isi7140. For catching my stupid 2:00 in the morning typos!  
- Book girl fan. For catching my stupid typos all the time within stories and I've never thanked you.  
****- storylover18. For inspiration on the Afghanistan scene... something we wrote a long time ago in an RPG inspired the idea.**


	10. Internalisation

_._

_"See, you had your faith needed no proof_  
_'til you saw him standing on the roof,_  
_and "Goodbye, John", they were his last words to you._  
_And the second he stepped off you knew,_  
_he took your heart, broke it in two,_  
_and from your lips, he drew the hallelujah._

_Hallelujah, hallelujah._  
_Hallelujah, hallelujah."_

The point is...

The point.

What is the point?

Living, breathing, eating, striving, surviving? Sherlock barely did any of that and he had been the one all-encompassing thing in John's life.

But John _has_ to live and breathe and eat and strive and survive because... _why_?

But he has done this before. He does have that going for him. And that's something, because he doesn't have much going for him right now.

He doesn't have a life. Sherlock was his life.

He barely has friends. He didn't talk to anyone now.

It hurts. It all hurts.

It had hurt before, yes, but his 'cure' had been Sherlock and John was pretty sure that he wasn't going to find another semi-suicidal, reckless, idiotic genius of a consulting detective for a flatmate. John is _positive_. There is no one else like Sherlock.

So... Where does it leave him? John wonders.

He has no cure, no way to find one. He had gone back to Ella, but that hasn't done any good so far. The things he needs to say, he can't, and the things he wants to say, he shouldn't. It's a never-ending _pit_ of bottled-up emotions and what happens when he explodes?

This sucks.

John thought that he had gone through his own personal hell in Afghanistan... and it had been. It had been. But this... this was worse.

It wasn't his shoulder aching.

It was his heart.

_"And John, you know you're been here before,_  
_but therapy can't help anymore._  
_You think that you can't live alone_  
_but you do._  
_There's a yellow face upon the wall,_  
_but it's not a smile, no, not at all._  
_It's a cold and it's a broken hallelujah."_

* * *

**Song: ****_Hallelujah _****by ? (Original by Leonard Cohen).  
Disclaimer: I do not own the song or the re-written lyrics, or ****_Sherlock_****.**

**Guys, I don't know who wrote this. I heard it on Youtube and the information there didn't say where they got it, except that it was just a cover. ****If you're the person who wrote this, ****_let me know_****. I ****_will_**** credit you.**** If you know who wrote this song, please, let me know. They are amazing, whoever it is. Again, I DO NOT own this song and I DID NOT write it; I am quoting an, at this point, unknown genius.**

**Note: Keep in mind that this is John's POV really soon after the Fall. So it's not pretty. And it won't be. But as the chapters move on, so will John.**

**9 days until the premiere!**


	11. Variables in the Equation

_"Oh, you can't hear me cry, see my dreams all die_  
_from where you're standing on your own._

_Oh, it's so quiet here and I feel so cold._  
_This house no longer feels like home."_

John props his head on his hand, staring towards the empty chair not ten feet away from him. It's been empty before, yes. John has seen it empty. Sherlock sometimes spent days out of the flat on a case, running wild or kipping at Bart's lab table between experiments. It's empty, but it's different. It's empty and Sherlock is never going to fill it again.

There's little reminders everywhere. The whole flat _was_ Sherlock. Him and Sherlock. The skull, for instance. Billy, Sherlock called it, for reasons to remain undetermined by John, had been one of the first things that John had noticed when Sherlock led him to Baker Street. _Friend of mine_, Sherlock had said. Sherlock's friend had been a _skull_, for God's sake.

The violin. John misses the sweet serenades that would come from the strings. John never had been able to really grasp the violin- string instruments were confusing to him; thus, John stuck to the clarinet- but he had loved the tunes it produces. Except now it won't. It's silent. It'll never reel off the memories of violin covers, nor remind John of the songs Sherlock wrote deep in his thinking stupors. Silence.

The silence is horrible.

The chemistry lays abandoned on the kitchen table, the island, the counters. John doesn't know what to do with them. He isn't sure that he should actually touch them. He isn't entirely sure that he _can_.

Everything here in the flat _is_ Sherlock. These are the remnants of the great consulting detective. After he's just watched him pitch forward off of a building, John can't just throw all this stuff away. This is all there is that's left.

But it hurts so much to be around it. They're living reminders... but looking at the numbered Rubik's cube or the headphones on the moose or elk or bull or whatever the _hell_ other kind of skeleton that is adorning their- _his_- sitting room is like watching Sherlock fall again.

John sighs heavily through his nose and closes his eyes.

Home has always been warm, inviting, invigorating.

Now it's cold and lifeless and John can't take the silence.

* * *

**Song: ****_So Cold_**** by Ben C. [_Not_ Benedict. I'm not writing this man's last name for a reason. If you know the person who sings this, don't mention his name just so we don't have any misreading/miscommunication going on here.]  
Disclaimer: I do not own the song or ****_Sherlock_****.**

**I feel like they get shorter and shorter... but shorter is poignant, too. And I love this song. You don't need much to picture here.**

**Thank you!**


	12. Every Step

_._

_"And I've lost who I am and I can't understand_  
_Why my heart is so broken..._

_There's a light, there's a sun,_  
_taking all shattered ones_  
_to the place we belong,_  
_and this war's not over."_

When John lost Sherlock, he had lost a bit of himself. He knew that, and yet it still surprises him how very true it is.

The nightmares revisit and the limp comes back. His hand shakes and he experiences a panic attack that he hasn't had in years.

He wonders if Sherlock is fairing any better than him. Must be. John believes in the afterlife, believes in miracles and all that, so he thinks that Sherlock's in a better place, that he's... happy, John supposes. As happy as a man who had been forced to commit suicide _could_ be, anyway.

He's somewhere where he fits in, where he's happy, properly happy, without the need for cases or drugs or guns. He doesn't need to handle the craving for nicotine patches or silence anymore. Sherlock probably has everything he wants right now.

It makes John happy, he guesses. He doesn't exactly know how to feel. He knows that he cared about Sherlock, cared about him a lot... and he always thought that Sherlock cared about him, too. He thinks he does, still would if he could, but he's _gone_. There's no point in questioning it.

But John wonders if Sherlock hurt when he was standing on that rooftop, ready to jump off. Even if someone was making him do this, which they had to be. He had to do it for some reason but Sherlock, a man who lived without regrets... had he been hurting?

It's a stupid question.

Just like it's stupid that he thinks people won't believe the drivel from that bitch Riley or whatever her name was. Of course people will believe. They already do. Sherlock's a fraud in everybody else's eyes and John won't make them believe. He wishes he could, but he can't. He never will.

So, he's just going to have to deal with that. Deal with the ramifications of the gossip that people spread. Deal with the ramification of Sherlock's death.

It hurts like hell, the first step.

But John has to take it, because if he doesn't, no one will.

_"Yesterday, I died._  
_Tomorrow's bleeding._  
_Fall into your sunlight."_

* * *

**Song: _Shattered_ by Trading Yesterday.  
Disclaimer: I do not own the song or _Sherlock_. As always, respective rights to their own owners. ****One week until the premiere!**

**The first step is always the hardest. **


	13. So Close and Yet So Far

_._

_"What hurts the most_  
_was being so close_  
_and having so much to say, and watching you walk away._  
_Never knowing_  
_what could have been._  
_And not seeing that loving you is_  
_what I was trying to do."_

It's boring.

That's the only word he can use to describe it. He's in Germany this week and it's so boring; he managed to find a case that lasted all of three days. He hates being in the background, sneaking around. He can't jump in and make his usual deductions. He has to do all of that behind the scenes. _He_ knows, of course, that he solved the cases, but he can't impress anyone with his deductions.

John doesn't tell him he's brilliant when he's thousands of miles away, thinking he's dead.

Sherlock tries to squelch the thought every time that it pops up in his mind. What would John say to this? How would John react to that? John wouldn't like that rat's foot festering away in the hydrochloric acid on the countertop.

It's stupid, but Sherlock... misses John. His mind whispers the word in a teeny voice in his head and he wants to deny it but he can't. He misses John.

He has never missed a person in his _life_.

All in all, life is relatively normal right now. Sherlock takes cases (albeit from the shadows, literally) and he does experiments and he complains to no one about how terrible the criminal classes are in wherever he happens to be. Everyone is still an idiot, except himself, and he's as ever confident in his skill set that he ever was.

But. There was a but.

There's no clients, there's no violin, there's no fireplace crackling or horrible Christmas jumpers or, most of all, there's no _John_.

_Forget it_, Sherlock reminds himself forcefully.

Except he can't. He never can. He can never forget John and he will never forget him. He wakes up each day with the expectation of a tea sitting on the countertop as a morning greeting. He demands to know where his hooded sweatshirt is before he realises that John isn't in the flat with him. He catches himself smoking cigarettes and then remembers that John isn't there to stop him from smoking the entire pack when he quite cold turkey just three days ago.

He's turned so sentimental.

He really, _really_ hates it.

* * *

**Song: ****_What Hurts the Most_**** by Rascal Flatts.  
Disclaimer: I do not own the song or ****_Sherlock_****.**

**It's under a week to the premiere now. O_O**


	14. I Wonder

_._

_"So lately, I've been wondering:_  
_who will be there to take my place?_  
_When I'm gone, you need love_  
_to light the shadows on your face._

_Lately, I work out a way_  
_to make it back, some day,_  
_to watch you, to guide you_  
_through the darkest of your days."_

Sherlock finds himself standing at the windows, staring down onto the bustling streets of none other than the (supposedly) beautiful country of New Zealand.

John loves it here. He went on a holiday with Sarah a couple years ago and he hadn't shut up when he had come back home, not that John had thought Sherlock was listening. But it had been impossible _not_ to listen; John had been like a schoolgirl fresh from prom.

Sherlock doesn't understand it. It's a place. It's got beauty, he supposes, but he's a Britain at heart and, after being away for so long as it were, he can't appreciate it. Ideally, he just wants to go back home, but he can't do that. Not yet.

He wonders what life is like back there. Probably went on without him like it had been before, Sherlock was sure. Except for the few people's lives that he had touched (not that he had _tried_ to make an impression, mind), no one else probably cared. He was just a fraud. A liar.

Except he wasn't, he isn't. No one knows that yet, of course.

Molly... Brilliant Molly. How could have he not seen? He noticed things and then he _noticed_ things... and, admittingly, he hadn't noticed at all with her. She had turned out to be the one person who mattered the most and no one, even him, had realised that for a time.

Mrs Hudson... Sherlock sighs when he thinks about how it probably affected their older landlady. She was the closest thing that he had had to a mother- not that he _wanted_ one- and their relationship had been special. Not to mention, Sherlock misses her cooking.

Lestrade... Greg. He'd put on a show there at last, arresting him. Sherlock smirks at the memory, but it dies away quickly, as does most traces of humour these days. Never did he think he'd see the day where he missed _Scotland Yard_. Bumbling idiots.

And John...

Sherlock wonders if John's moved on, accepted what Sherlock was or what he claimed to be, if he's found a girlfriend and stuck with her and how Baker Street is. If John's PTSD has come back or if he had wished to go back to war or had he continued on like nothing at all?

But knows the answer to that: John was his blogger. His best friend. He would have done anything for Sherlock, followed him anywhere, even to death.

Sherlock wonders what he will return to, when he returns.

Because one day, he will. He will return. Back to London and back to John, and Hat-Man and Robin or not, they would be together again.

_"If I could, then I would_  
_I'll go wherever you will go._  
_Way up high or down low_  
_I'll go wherever you will go."_

* * *

**Song: _Wherever You Will Go_ by The Calling.  
Disclaimer: I do not own the song or _Sherlock_.  
**

**I meant to work a bit of John's POV into this because I think this song fits him, too, the chorus, specifically, but I liked this, so I left it at that. Although I don't think many people like the choice of music anyway... not many people are reading anymore. (Or maybe that's because everybody else has already seen Series Three and can't be bothered with my drivel. :p)**

**Nonetheless! Sanity check: five days until the premiere! YES.**


	15. Managing to Cope, Slowly

_._

_"This is life without you._  
_Learning how to miss you._  
_I guess I need to know how it feels like._

_This is life without you._  
_I don't know who to turn to.  
And everything I know to say is goodbye..._  
_So, goodbye."_

John glances towards Mary affectionately, his stomach rumbling in anticipation of a home-cooked meal. It's something he doesn't get much and, even on his dates with Mary, they'd usually ordered a take-away or gone to a sit-down restaurant. They don't have a lot of time _to_ have home-cooked dinner... and it's especially special since this is the first time that Mary's cooked for him since they met. It's a good sign, John thinks.

He hasn't forgotten about his old life. Oh no. He can't forget about that. He wouldn't if he could because Sherlock will _always_ be the best part of his life... his old life. But this is a new chapter, and there's Mary now.

He had realised, after a few long months...? that he couldn't sit around and wallow in pity from Sherlock's suicide. He knows what's true, what isn't, and what people say doesn't bother him anymore. He doesn't _care_. Like Sherlock, John just doesn't _care_ what they say.

The people that matter to him believe in him, and by extension, believe in Sherlock, and that's all he cares about. Sod the rest of the them. They don't matter.

He knows that rationalising Sherlock's death is the best thing that he could have done... He supposes it helps. He had gotten out of bed, so, yes, it had happened. His limp had gone away again. His hand only shook once in a great while.

He's... coping.

Yeah, coping. It's the best he can do. He can't forgive, can't forget, but he does pick up the blog again (sparingly) and Mary's oh-so-patient with him and it's... nice.

Sometimes, it terrifies him. When he laughs or when he and Mary kiss or when he _forgets_, momentarily forgets... Is that a dishonour to Sherlock? To his memory?

But he and Mary talk about it, discuss it, decide that it isn't. That Sherlock would want John to move on.

_No, he wouldn't,_ John argues with a smile, _he was a selfish git._

But, deep down, he knows it's true. Sherlock, however inhuman some people made him to be, wouldn't want him to suffer like this. What had he said once... Caring wasn't an advantage? He wouldn't want John to _care_.

Well, John _does_ care... but he can try to make it easier on himself. Try to honour Sherlock's memory by living, not dying with him. He is a separate entity- never mind what it had felt like when Sherlock died- and it is his duty to Sherlock to move on.

He may never be able to experience it again, but life with Sherlock is something that he'll never forget.

_"This is life without you."_

* * *

**Song: _Life Without You_ by Stanfour.  
Disclaimer: I do not own the song or _Sherlock_.**

**Moving on, but never forgetting. Never.**


	16. Back to the Beginning

_._

_"Just close your eyes.  
The sun is going down._  
_You'll be alright._  
_No one can hurt you now._  
_Come morning light,_  
_you and I'll be safe and sound."_

Sherlock drums out the beat of a melody swirling in his head on the tabletop, narrowing his eyes slightly. If he wasn't in this _horrible_ press conference- he was incognito in blue jeans and his hood flipped up on his sweatshirt- he would be writing down these notes. These are good. These are John.

He hadn't thought about writing a song for John- he wrote one for The Woman, mostly unconsciously- but it had become an all encompassing thought now. Not necessarily a song _for_ John, but a song _of_ John.

Lots of deep notes, runs. An energetic, breathless bridge and a longing chorus. Apologetic, almost, Sherlock supposes, and wishing for better days.

Promises of tea and cases and chases and Cluedo spread over the expanse of countless notes. An apology and a question all in one: accept me back? without the sentiment of needing to speak.

Sherlock doesn't have his violin with him, but that doesn't stop him from visualising the notes. He's a musician in his spare time and he doesn't stop composing. Besides, it's better than these idiots barking up the wrong tree about a case that he'd solved two weeks ago. He isn't sure why he's _here_ at this conference, actually...

Oh, that's a thought. Peace. Peace after the chaos of the entire song, much like what had happened back at Barts. This was a very sentimental piece. Strangely sentimental. He supposed that John would like it, not that he'll ever play it for John, but it's too sentimental for his taste. Still, it doesn't deter him. The music flows within and he is but a slave to its grasp.

It's morning. Seven forty-five. John takes a twenty minute shower on a normal day. He then shaves and brushes his teeth. It annoys Sherlock because that's not how _he_ does it. John leaves the bathroom and goes to the kitchen. He checks the fridge, selects breakfast. Usually eggs, or bacon, or sausage links, or even just jam on a piece of toast. Once in awhile, it's a full-English. Depends on the mood. Runs the tap, rinses out the kettle, clicks the kettle on. Tea leaves into the pot. Sitting room, newspaper, telly, and then blog.

Sherlock's usually awake. If he's not, he's up soon thereafter from the noise of the water running through the pipes. Brushes his teeth first- can't stand morning mouth- shaves, and then showers. Joins John in the sitting room (if he's not working) with a cuppa and appears to ignore the news.

Normal day.

Sherlock sighs quietly under his breath as the police officer in the front of the room drones on and on. He'd much rather be sitting in Baker Street or even in his rented flat here in Paris with a violin, trying to get this melody down onto paper. It's not that he can't remember it... He just... would rather have the finality of having it written, just in case. It's good. It's very good. He can't deny a masterpiece when it's born, albeit if it's a temperamental tune.

Yes, John is definitely deep tones on the music scale. Rich and poignant.

Sherlock sighs.

He owes John a serious apology and he hopes that he won't take it too badly when he finally makes it back.

* * *

**Song: ****_Safe and Sound_**** by Taylor Swift ft The Civil Wars.  
Disclaimer: I do not own ****_Sherlock_**** or the song.**

**You miss the smallest things when you can't be with them.**

**Guess what? Guess. THREE days until the premiere. Three. We are officially ****_below_**** 100 hours until ****_The Empty Hearse_**** airs (and that's straight up until the hour of the premiere). Yes.**


	17. Almost Perfection

_._

_"When we met Moriarty, I knew something was different._  
_This guy was out to get you. I don't know if you saw it coming,_  
_but I didn't and now I miss you. And I won't forget you, Sherlock._

_I believe in Sherlock Holmes, I believe in Sherlock Holmes._  
_I believe in Sherlock Holmes, just one more miracle, please."_

John looks intently at the grave before him, his reflection shining back at him in the black exterior.

Mary takes his hand and he squeezes it back as a soothing mechanism, leaning into her presence to prove himself that she's really there.

He's used to it by now. Of course he is. He's come to Sherlock's grave so many times that he knows _everything_ about it. How many steps it is from the entrance way to Sherlock's tombstone. Approximately how many flowers can fit without looking overcrowded. The brand of cleaning solution that cleans off the dirt and grime that accumulates sometimes.

But it's different with Mary.

He feels like he's betraying some part of Mary by going to visit Sherlock's grave. Mary was the person that he had turned towards when he had no one. She had, by all means, been a replacement. That didn't mean that he didn't love her. He did, he really did. But it had been different in the beginning; she'd been a distraction and _then_ he had fallen in love. So, it feels a bit strange when he visits with Sherlock when Mary's with him.

She's so good about him. She had taken on everything with a sympathetic expression and held him while he cried when he related the story to her one evening. She believed in Sherlock without even knowing the man and it made John's heart ache with how simply _perfect_ this woman was.

She refused to let his memory die. And she took his hand and helped to guide him through the mass of people who thought Sherlock was a liar, whispering encouragement along the way.

John wants to spend the rest of his life with this woman.

Sherlock would hate the sentiment.

John, like any other man, had had hopes for a family. He just thought that he would never be able to obtain it... Sherlock's lifestyle had never been particularly suitable for John to settle down and Sherlock's lifestyle had been his lifestyle. Not that he would change his past for anything, not at all... but he enjoys this, too.

It isn't bombs and it isn't serial killers, but it's love. It's peace. Different than the type with Sherlock and it's the best thing he can have right now.

It's the only thing he wishes for... a long and happy life with Mary.

Asides from, of course, having his best friend back.

But life with Mary seems pretty good, too and, unlike Sherlock, is completely obtainable in the present.

_"One more thing, just one more miracle for me._  
_Stop being dead, now just stop this all._  
_One more thing, just one more miracle for me._  
_Come back now; I need you back where you belong..."_

* * *

**Song: ****_I Believe in Sherlock Holmes_**** by Vatican Cameos (Rikki Oden).  
Disclaimer: I do not own the song or ****_Sherlock_****.**

**Personally, I like John and Mary. I never thought I would but from what I've seen in previews, I absolutely adore her. Martin and Amanda are ****_adorable_****.**


	18. Creating Normality

_._

_"I wish you could give me the cold shoulder_  
_and I wish you could still give me a hard time._  
_And I wish I could still wish it was over,_  
_but even if wishing is a waste of time._  
_Even if I never cross your mind..._

_I'll leave the door on the latch if you ever come back..._  
_There'll be a light in the hall and a key under the mat if you ever come back..."_

Sherlock isn't coming back.

John's realised this and he's fine with it. Well, not exactly _fine_, per se, but he's learned to live with it. Because there's nothing he can do to change it.

He has started blogging again, although the amount of people who comment simply to say that Sherlock's burning in hell discourages him. He doesn't defend Sherlock- Sherlock would hate that- but he doesn't just read those comments and turn away, either. They swirl around his mind for a few days until he finds a better memory of Sherlock and his life to replace them and then he can smile again.

Still, it's the fact that he has to chase away those horrible comments at all that gets him. Most of the people reading his blog had known Sherlock and believed John in what he said, but there's those people that dither on the spot or downright show their distaste.

John decides to stop blogging.

The decision comes on the day that a box of belongings comes from Greg. It's useless stuff, really, but it makes him smile frankly when Greg drops it off. They're reminders, but he's alright with them now.

He doesn't touch the box again. He watches the DVD and Sherlock pulls a one-up on him again when video-Sherlock inadvertently tells reality-John that he'll stop being dead.

But he's dead.

There's nothing that can change that.

So, he stops blogging. He decides that it's not worth it to delete comments or reply to them or try to calm himself down through things stupid people say.

He's fine.

Sherlock's dead, but John's fine.

He had never thought that he would be... fine, that was. But he is.

Because Sherlock would want him to be. Mary wants him to be. And John wants _himself _to be.

It's taken two years... but he's fine. He's made peace with the idea that Sherlock is dead and he can move on.

* * *

**Song: _If You Ever Come Back_ by The Script.  
Disclaimer: I do not own the song or _Sherlock_.**

**Because of course I had to recap _Many Happy Returns_ in the day before _The Empty Hearse_. Naturally.**


	19. Key to Our Lives

_._

_"Still far away from where I belong,_  
_but it's always darkest before the dawn._

_So you can doubt and you can hate,_  
_but I know no matter what it takes_

_I'm coming home, I'm coming home._  
_Tell the world I'm coming home._  
_Let the rain wash away all the pain of yesterday._  
_I know my kingdom awaits and they've forgiven my mistakes."_

Sherlock drums his fingers irritably, willing the cab to go faster even though he knows that they're bordering speed limit now.

But he _wants_ to get home. He _needs_ to be home. They're just outside of London and Sherlock has never, _ever_ felt so eager to get back to his own home. He wants the bustling population of London, the smell and the sights and his _people_, his _family_.

Sherlock wrinkles his nose. Too much sentiment.

But he's antsy. He is really, really antsy. There is nothing so painful as having to wait the last few hours for the thing that you _desperately_ want the most...

God, he's so happy to be back.

He actually longs to see how they will react. Mrs Hudson will panic and go into hysterics, he thinks with a smile. Lestrade will be gobsmacked. Molly will be excited to see him again. And John...

John. John will probably punch him. With all of the anger of a soldier, Sherlock'll probably end up taking one to the face. He'll let him, of course. He deserves it. He does.

As much as he'd love to run off to John first, he has other priorities. It's been two years... He can wait this much longer. He's going to see his brother first, finish up what he started once and for all, find out what everyone has been up to.

And then he's going back to his life.

Because, after two years and all of the fighting he's done, Sherlock thinks that he deserves it.

He's excited.

He hopes the reunion goes as well as he hopes... (But there is a possibility that it might not.)

Nonetheless, it's time to return and Sherlock anxiously gauges the time until he can see his friends again.

_"I'm coming home, I'm coming home._  
_Tell the world I'm coming home."_

* * *

**Song: ****_I'm Coming Home_**** by Skylar Grey.  
Disclaimer: I do not own the song or ****_Sherlock_****.**

**Even though I think I'm one of three or so that ****_hasn't_**** watched it yet... SERIES THREE STARTS TONIGHT! YES!**

**But really... if you've already seen it, please watch it on PBS so ****_Sherlock_**** gets the ratings it deserves. What would happen if they stopped airing it here because of low ratings? (Not that I think/hope they would, but you know). Because who wouldn't want to watch it again, anyway? :p**

**Anyway, thanks for the support for the story and everyone watch Sherlock! :D :D :D**

**#BELIEVEINSHERLOCK  
#SHERLOCKLIVES**

**(PS. Go to the Chapter Select Drop-Down and see if you can spot the secret code... :p)**


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